The Power of Blood
by Shikiyamachi
Summary: Discontinued.
1. 1999: The Burning of Humanity

Hello and thank you for those who have chosen to check this piece out. I want to give you my gratitude for taking the time to read.

Keep in mind that because this is an AU, many characters will not be as they are in canon.

Update 8/24/2015... I have decided to write this in non-chronological order. Before, I had wished to write it by each season, but I realize that was too ambitious for someone like me. This way, I can write all the important bits.

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><p><strong><em>Year 1999<em> **

_Screaming..._

_Begging..._

_Blood..._

_"Make it stop!" _

Sam tightened his grip around Dean's wrists, fighting to keep his brother's arms away from harming himself even further. The loud sounds emitting from Dean's throat were deafening. He had to resist covering his ears, his desperation easing the unbearable urge. Sam could not allow what little strength he had left to fail, for his older brother's sake. The burning in his masticated wrist barely registered, even as purplish-red blood continued to seep from the wound and drip onto the red splatters soaking Dean's white tee.

Dean suddenly froze. Sam's relief was fleeting as his brother began choking. Panic rising, Sam turned Dean around to face him. His green eyes were glazed over in pain, tears steadily slipping down his pale cheeks. Without Sam's forceful grip, Dean brought his hands to his throat and began to claw at the skin.

Sam moved quickly, tackling his brother to the ground and taking hold of his wrists. He slammed them to the ground on each side of Dean's head. Dean struggled beneath Sam, hacking and failing to breathe properly. Sam shouted Dean's name, but the only response was a choked gasp. Blood leaked from the side of his mouth, distracting Sam's hold.

Dean threw Sam off to the side and began to crawl away while gouging his throat. Sam groaned and rolled onto his stomach, frustration plastered over his face. His brother was completely out of it, unaware of anything around him, wanting the agony from within gone. No matter how much Sam called out, Dean remained unresponsive.

Watching his older brother literally ripping himself apart was unbearable. Tears escaped from his eyes as Dean made an awful gagging sound before vomiting copious amounts of blood, his stained hands gripping his chest where his heart was. Sam heard Dean sobbing through the gags, barely able to choke out his plea.

_Make it stop!_

There was nothing he could do. Dean would continue fighting him and killing himself at the same time. Trapped in hopelessness, the only thing Sam focused on was the gore decorating his and Dean's bodies. Blood covered his hands and sullied his clothing, Sam's wrist slowly bleeding over the ground. Dean's chest bled from multiple lacerations, his arms and throat scratched and torn. His lips and chin were thickly coated red, globs of blood dripping to the ground from Dean's open mouth.

Sam wanted so badly to crawl towards his brother, but he had no more strength left. His body was utterly exhausted, and a slow yet agonizing burn began to spread from his hands to his arms. He breathed out, "Dean... I'm here." His voice broke and the world blurred, tears filling his vision.

Dean stopped screaming then, an eerie silence engulfing the area. Sam blinked twice in time to see his brother reach out for a gun that had been tossed aside during the fight, the other hand never leaving his chest. A startling shriek and Dean's fingers finally seized the grip.

Sam felt his heart skip a beat as Dean brought the gun to his head, watery green eyes searching.

Their eyes met simultaneously. Dean shuddered, his lips spreading into a pained grimace. Despite the blood filling his brother's mouth, Sam clearly heard Dean's regretful apology.

The sound of discharge echoed in his ears, and he cried out.

"Dean~!"


	2. July 2005: A Father's Love

**_July 2005_**

John Winchester looked towards Bobby Singer's home from within the Impala. John's hands were gripping the steering wheel with suffocating force, skin taut over muscle and bone as he battled between the common sense of a hunter and his own, beating heart.

The past three years had been the abyss of unrest, nightmares arising from pleasant dreams and his late wife's voice degrading him at every moment. She was a merciless spirit haunting his thoughts, and knowing her words were the creation of his unrelenting guilt had left him unable to continue living as pathetically as he was. Coming to Bobby's home was the first step to fixing his mistake. He needed his sons back.

With a deep breath, John shut the car off and stepped out, closing the door with a gentle push. He slowly walked up the steps and knocked on Bobby's door.

The older hunter opened his front door and immediately grabbed his hand, pouring holy water over the thinning skin. When nothing happened, Bobby greeted him with a nod. "John... so you've decided, then." His relief was apparent by his tone and the light that had returned to his eyes, the dark shadows beneath them fading after these three difficult years.

Offering a half-smile, John answered, "I betrayed my boys, Bobby, and they never even got to tell me what happened to them because I didn't wanna listen." He paused to catch his breath, glancing away from the man's understanding look. "They're all I have left. I want them back, Bobby."

A hand clasped him on the shoulder then brushed down his arm. Bobby was already walking towards the back door when John looked up, cheeks flushed from his moment of vulnerability. His embarrassment lingered as he followed Bobby out the back. That declaration for his children was the first time he verbally admitted to his faults as a father, and suddenly the situation became all the more real.

He wanted his children back, but would they want _him_ back?

Sam and Dean were the most important people in his life. Even the close friendship with Bobby could not rival the love he had for his boys. And despite this, he had forgone the complete happiness of his children by thrusting them into the hunting world, fueled by a craving for vengeance. John placed Mary's killer ahead of everyone else in his life, and because of his selfishness, his children were now the kind of beings John slaughtered for a living. And rather than accepting them as they were, he had used their moment of weakness to seal them away.

And he had used Bobby to do it, the man who had practically been his children's third parent. John hated the thought because Bobby was the good man, a voice of reason that thought through a situation, pointing out the facts and possible consequences before deciding to take action. And as always, Bobby let John make the final decision when it came to his sons, even if he disagreed entirely. He was the father his children should have had, not him.

John had thought he handled the role of a father well, teaching them all he knew to protect them, when all he truly did was sacrifice their adolescent years to train them like soldiers at war. By raising his children as hunters, John could leave them and search for the yellow-eyed demon. But in reality, he had treated Sam and Dean only as hindrances in his quest of finding justice for Mary, believing he was doing what was best for them.

There was no point avenging his late wife's death if he lost his children in the process.

But perhaps that had already happened...

Outside was another house, the structure smaller than Bobby's home and its paint job mimicking an aged appearance. The mud colored wood was a far cry from the original house's faded blue pigmentation, and to an outsider, would appear old and run down. The junk that had once occupied the back was gone, important items organized in manageable piles and allowing room for the new housing.

Despite the many times visiting Bobby, John had refused to see whatever cage the older man constructed. If he had accepted the invitation, he knew this day would have arrived much sooner than today, but then freeing his children would have only been due to guilt. John was not here today out of guilt, but because Sam and Dean were all he had left besides Bobby. They were his only reason for continuing this life cycle of pain. Vengeance had merely clouded the truth.

The day Mary died in that fire, John nearly remained in the house to incinerate along with her. Then he thought of Dean, his oldest child with his bright smile and cute laugh, the courage in his green eyes as he secured Sam within his small arms, sprinting out of their burning house with the resolve to save his little brother. And Sammy, his youngest that was still so small and fragile to the world but strong in the eyes of his parents. The images of his sons willed John to leave Mary behind. They had been his reason for living a life without his love.

Had he never met the yellow-eyed demon again, maybe then he would have had a normal life of raising his children and getting married again, but the demon appeared days after the fire and a few years after. All the taunting and lewd comments about his wife and children had become too much for his vulnerable state of mind, and at one point, the demon had become everything to him, causing the downward spiral of his remaining family.

The taint of revenge had eventually taken control.

Bobby was already opening the door before John reached the porch, and together, they walked inside to be greeted by an elongated hallway. The hall was made of simple white plaster with wooden burgundy floors, the timber scratched and broken off along the edges of each board. The drop ceiling was in similar bad shape, water stains spreading from the tiles and onto the walls. Four rounded light bulbs, covered by metal shades, highlighted these poor qualities. Three doors were spread throughout the hallway which looked no better than the flooring, but in place of door handles were electric ones with panels a few inches above.

They passed the first door and stopped in front of the second. Bobby lifted the panel lid to reveal an illuminated keypad, typing in six numbers with quick taps. He then turned the knob as a high-pitched _ding_ emitted.

When Bobby had told John his sons were under lockdown, he never put thought into what that meant until the door was fully opened with fluorescent lights glaring above. Unlike the hallway, the four walls were composed entirely of grey metal, cross lines forming wide square tiles. The flooring and high ceiling were metal as well, no designer markings present and blaring to the eyes due to the headache inducing lights. At all four bottom corners were bulky wheat chains that disappeared into the floor at one end while the other ends continued towards the person confined to the middle of the room.

John recognized his firstborn by the shoulder length hair that shimmered under the light. Like his mother, Dean's coloring was a dark-toned blond that seemed brown when cropped short...

John remembered the time when Dean grew out his hair for the first time, three years after the loss of his maternal parent. One sudden day, he had proclaimed that he no longer wanted John to cut his hair, and when he tried doing so anyway, Dean struggled away. That was the first time his eldest told John no, and he had been too shocked to try again. In only six months, Dean's hair had grown a few inches past his shoulders, and still he would fuss if John even picked up a pair of scissors.

The first month of resistance had been tolerable, but by the sixth, John had begun to reach his limit of patience. Never had his irritation originated from a dislike of long hair, but rather it had been Dean specifically. With his long blond hair, green eyes and cheeky smile, Dean resembled Mary so much that it was painful. He could barely look at Dean without the feeling of nausea rising to the back of his throat.

A few days before he was about to force Dean to visit a children's hairdresser, his eldest came to him with a forlorn expression and drooped shoulders. In his tiny hand was a pair of scissors, blades closed tightly by a thick rubber band. Without a word, Dean offered him the object and straddled a nearby chair, facing away from his father. John continued the silence, standing behind his son and tying the strands into a low ponytail with the rubber band. He then took the scissors and spread the blades, wrapping them above the band.

Just as he began pulling his fingers together, Dean spoke quietly. "I really wanted to look like mommy."

That had stopped him completely. He was frozen by surprise, having never expected such a response.

His lack of comment did not deter his son who sniffed sadly. "I saw the picture of her in your wallet, and I thought- I..." Dean brought an arm up to his face and moved it sideways, and John realized he was crying. "I really miss mommy and I barely remember her, but I know she always said I looked just like her, and I thought- I thought that growing out my hair would make me look just like her." His voice was shaking as he stumbled out his thoughts. "And I had ho- hoped that it would make you happier, seeing her in me, but- b-but instead you always looked like you were mad at me and- and I'm so _sorry_, daddy."

Dean's little body trembled as he apologized, and John could recall feeling like shit for causing Dean to think such a painful thing. He had immediately drawn Dean into a reassuring hug, blond hair forgotten in his grief. His son buried his head into John's chest, sobbing and hiccupping with loud gasps. John leaned his head down so Dean would easily hear him over the emotional sounds, "Listen Dean, there is nothing you need to apologize for. I understand that you were trying to make me happy, and I appreciate it. But I want you to be yourself, okay? I miss mommy too, and I know I will never forget her memory, just as you should never forget that you and Sammy were her entire world."

John pulled Dean back so they were face-to-face. He wiped the snot from Dean's face with a Kleenex from his pocket and cleared the tears with a finger. He smiled, "You have your mother's beautiful smile, and just seeing that makes me _very_ happy. Not just because it reminds me of your mother, but because it's a reminder that you are one of our most treasured gifts."

Dean rubbed one of his eyes dry and grinned, "Sammy too, right dad?"

John playfully pinched Dean's nose, returning the grin. "Of course, Sammy as well." He leaned down for the scissors that had fallen before turning Dean back around, finally running the blades clean through the ponytail. He handed the ten-inch long hair to Dean, "Think we should keep it since you worked so hard to grow it, Dean?"

His son agreed, head relaxing back as John continued to cut his hair shorter. Dean was not quiet for long. "The boys in my class kept calling me a girl, saying boys aren't supposed to be pretty."

"Oh, and what did you do?"

"I ignored them," Dean boasted. John shook his head, amused. "And since they were being mean, I went and played with the girls. They were a lot more fun than the boys anyway."

John laughed as he finished Dean's hair, "I bet the boys were jealous. You'll get a girlfriend before any of them."

Dean brushed his fingers through the shortened strands, smiling at his father. "Nu uh. I don't need a girl. I just need you and Sammy. That's all I'll _ever_ need."

"Oh, of course. How could I forget?"

...

John opened his eyes, the memory fading as Bobby quietly called his name.

He ignored the other man and looked back at Dean, taking note of the blindfold concealing his green eyes. On the lower half of his face was metal plating with three small holes around the mouth, which connected to thick metal that encased his ears. Enveloping his body were several tight layers of white cloth, constricting his legs and arms which could be seen folded in front of his chest. The only peek of skin John could see was the mid-bridge of Dean's nose, the color sickly pale. Behind Dean's bound body was a metal board that held his body upwards with black leather belts fastened around his legs, waist and shoulders. Trapping him in a secure cocoon were the wheat chains that crossed around Dean and the board, forming two X's on top of each other and gorging indents into the white bindings. Below Dean was a platform molded onto the metal board behind his son, adding a few inches of height.

John managed to pull his stare towards Bobby, away from the nauseating scene. The older man was still at the door, and John could not recall when he had stepped further into the room only inches away from his son. He floundered for something to say before deciding on a question, "How did you do all this?"

Bobby said nothing as he walked passed John and stepped up onto the platform, brushing a hand along the chains across Dean's chest. Although his face was shadowed by his hat, John could clearly make out the somber look that aged his friend's face. "Three years they've been here. Confined. And the first few months were..." He trailed off for a moment, shaking his head with eyes tightly closed. "John, you're not the only one whose been struggling these years. Sam and Dean are important to me too, and you're not the one who had to keep them sedated until all of this was built."

A part of John wanted Bobby to shut his mouth, but the rest of him desperately needed to hear of Bobby's pain, the emotional turmoil he had caused for not being the father he should have been. Out of all the mistakes he had made, bringing Bobby into this mess was the one he regretted the most apart from his children. The least he could do was listen. "I know."

"You are their father, John. Not me." Bobby stepped off the platform and crowded into his space, setting his hands on John's shoulders with a frown tugging his lips down. "That's why I did all this. _For you_... Sam and Dean... they have forever, but you- if you continue living the way you do, you- will have- _nothing_." With the last word, Bobby shoved John back towards the floor. His final sentence was gently stated, "John, you must stop torturing yourself and be the father I know you can be. Okay?"

John sat up from where he collapsed, avoiding the gaze of his best and only friend as he was lectured. Bobby was right about having nothing if he continued blaming himself: for being weak, for neglecting his children, for choosing revenge over love- for everything. Yes he could have done better, by loving more and hating less, but the present was not the past. The best he could do from this point on was be a better person, a better friend and a better father, rather than live regretting his mistakes and burying his body into a hundred foot grave.

A weight along his shoulders was lifted, guilt he had allowed to fester over the years abating. The self-hatred was not entirely gone. There would be days of worthlessness, those moments when drowning in the haze of beer bottles was his only escape from the reality haunting him. For now though, he would reign over this emerging self-confidence that encouraged him to fight for a better future with his family, and that included Bobby.

Standing up, John smiled at Bobby with gratitude, and without warning, pulled him into an appreciative hug. He felt the other man tense for a few seconds before returning the gesture with as much enthusiasm, lightly tapping the back of John's head with his knuckles. "Not so tight, you idjit."

John ignored the complaint, needing Bobby to understand just how thankful he was for the man's friendship. A world that did not include Bobby was unbearable to imagine because the hunter had done so much for his family. Bobby had become their new home, offering a place to sleep, giving them support and comfort and safety the Winchesters could find nowhere else. God only knew how much John loved having Bobby in his life and in his children's lives. An entire novel could be written in honor of Bobby's existence, and if the embrace was not enough proof of his appreciation, John would create the book at this very moment.

He heard Bobby sigh before surrendering, "I know. You're welcome."

John pulled away then, a frown replacing his smile as he stepped up towards the platform where Dean was held.

Bobby joined him, answering the question from before. "You already know I'm one of the most well-known hunters in the community, and with that comes a lot of connections. There is an organization that specializes in capturing and studying supernatural creatures. They regularly build these types of places to incarcerate them and also to keep outsiders from getting suspicious. This house is soundproof and these chains are nearly unbreakable."

A horrified shiver ran down John's back, eyes wide as he turned towards the older man. "So they do experiments? Bobby, if they know about my sons, then-"

Bobby quickly interrupted him, returning the look with an incredulous one. "C'mon John, you really believe I'd go blabbing about Sam and Dean. Heck no, I have enough credibility with these people that they'd do this no questions asked. You and I are the only ones who know about this."

"I didn't mean to sound accusing or anything, but to dump something like this on me deserves some freaking out." John breathed in and out several times, trying to calm the pounding deep in his chest cavity.

Normally he would not have reacted at the thought of experimentation on supernatural beings, but his children were a part of that world now. His outlook as a hunter molded with his role as a father, and those two personalities clashed. Hunters viewed a black and white world where the target was evil no matter what. Sam and Dean, however, were his children. He raised those two as respectable human beings, witnessed their smiles, laughter, and tears, Sam's understandable anger and Dean's mollycoddling tendencies. John could never picture them as anything but his boys, even when the hunter within strongly disagreed.

How many creatures in that organization were children, he wondered. What percentage of them was innocent of any wrongdoing, not yet old enough to hurt or kill humans? And how many were like his own, children of hunters that were transformed due to a simple lack of parental attention. And if Bobby was absent from his life, would he too have offered his sons to be experiments, knowing Dean was incapable of-

He was suddenly pulled from his disturbed thoughts when Bobby elbowed his side. John's gaze strayed from the floor and towards the other man, who rolled his eyes while shaking his head. "I know what you're thinking, so stop it. You're here now. Nothing else matters, alright?"

John stared into reassuring blue eyes, relaxing after a couple of minutes. He nodded and waved his hand in Dean's direction. "I'm ready."

Bobby returned to the door where three red buttons were vertically set a few centimeters apart, situated on a panel that resembled a light switch. He jerked his head, "Come over here, John."

He backed up until he was side-by-side with Bobby. His friend then pushed the top button, a loud whistling noise following. John quickly turned back. The metal encasing Dean's ears had slid back behind his son's head, freeing his sense of hearing. The plating covering his mouth moved forward and disconnected from the left ear piece, sliding along with the right until all that remained shielding Dean's face was the blindfold.

Free to move, Dean cocked his head to the side and smiled. "You've not spoken for a while. How long's it been now, Uncle Bobby?" His voice was a bit hoarse from disuse, but still held a familiar inflection of sass.

Bobby stepped in front of John and answered, "It's been about nine months, kid."

"That would make a little more than three years, right? How rude, old man, leavin' me here all alone with no one else to talk to. You should be ashamed." Dean's mouth curled into a teasing smirk, and though Dean was blinded by the cloth over his eyes, Bobby tossed back his own smirk.

"That's too bad, boy. And here I was thinking of giving you a present, but since I'm so rude and all, I'll just take it back."

Dean paused with pursed lips. Some seconds later he asked, "What is it?"

John panicked when Bobby pushed the last two buttons, his friend's supporting smile doing nothing to calm the nerves prickling his skin and the feeling of claws piecing his chest. Faced with the prospect of talking with Dean again, of apologizing and asking for his forgiveness was absolutely terrifying and immobilizing. His worst nightmare was rejection, a justified response but one John could not bear now that he had managed to come here after years of self-loathing.

He trembled as secret panels on the floor slid back, releasing the end of the chains at each corner of the room. Those tight around Dean's body slackened and dropped. The belts holding him against the metal board then unbuckled, allowing his wrapped form to slither down onto the platform. As Dean descended, a short blade stabbed out from the middle of the board, slicing clean through his white bindings, his freed arms falling to lie on his thighs. His blond hair flipped into his face, hiding the blindfold that remained in front of his eyes. Dean was motionless, perhaps shocked about his unexpected freedom.

Though scared of Dean's reaction, John moved forward with a determined stride. In just a few steps he was rushing to reach Dean, and once there, collapsed to his knees on the platform. He stilled, taking in the sight of his eldest son. Dean rested on his backside with legs folded to the side and slumped over. He wore a lengthy white tee-shirt and black boxer shorts that had receded above the knees, and glancing at his bare arms, John realized three years of inactivity had caused significant difference: sickly pale skin and loss of muscle. Though Dean was anything but fragile, by looking at him, one would think otherwise.

He knew there was a cruel creature under that human guise.

John extended his arms out and untied the blindfold, pulling the cloth away and letting it float to the platform. Dean's head raised with eyes tightly closed, shielding his retinas from the harsh lighting above. As time ticked by, Dean fluttered his lashes, watery eyes narrow and pupils contracted. He then rubbed his eyes, wiping away escaped tears. His eldest eventually looked up, green eyes bright and glistening from a layer of moisture that had yet to clear.

They stared, father and son reunited but uncertain of each other.

John was the first to act, drawing Dean into a desperate embrace with tears threatening to fall. He felt Dean slide his hands to his trembling shoulders, his fingers digging into the skin. John tried to hold on as long as possible, unwilling to see any expression his son may hold. He strengthened the hug when Dean practically breathed out, "Dad."

"I'm sorry, Dean." John nearly chanted the apology, as if such a response would result in the forgiveness he did not deserve.

But Dean's next words froze him in place: "You did nothin' wrong, so why are you apologizing?"

John pulled back gaping, "Dean? You know I-"

"And you've probably been beating yourself over it since then." His son quirked a teasing grin, "Honestly, you never change, ol' daddy dearest."

He was absolutely speechless. He whipped around and found Bobby grinning as well, who noticed John's disbelieving stare. The older man shrugged, "Dean thought you wouldn't release them for another three years. You managed to beat his expectations by a whole three years."

John faced Dean again and collapsed against him, forehead falling onto Dean's shoulder. He wrapped his arms around Dean's waist and began chuckling until the short puffs of air evolved into full-blown laughter. If he began to cry too, well... no one in the room would outwardly tease him about it.

He mumbled into Dean's sleeve, "And Sammy-"

Bobby's voice sounded from behind him. "He was pissed, of course. Sam's just like you, having irrational anger as a first response."

"And don't you dare say the anger was well-deserving, dad."

John leaned back and sighed, head bowed so he could avoid their faces for just a bit longer. All this time he had been worrying, dreaming recurring nightmares, and disparaging himself, only to finally come into this prison and discover his two boys had forgiven him long before today. And Bobby had known all along..._ you are their father, John, not me_ ...keeping silent and waiting for John to choose between being a hunter and being a father... _you must stop torturing yourself and be the father I know you can be _...waiting for the day John would turn his back on the world and free Sam and Dean.

Because that is what John was doing, breaking their chains and releasing them, knowing they would continue hunting the supernatural while destroying the human lives caught in the crossfire. He was unleashing creatures that cared for no one but their human father and adopted uncle. John would continue his search for the yellow-eyed demon and hunt along the way, saving lives while Sam and Dean ended lives. Bobby, too, would continue aiding other hunters, fully aware of his two 'nephews' that killed one human for every one he saved.

He and Bobby were probably going to hell, but having Sam and Dean back with them where they belonged, the consequences did not matter. The four of them would be a family again, and with that in mind, John's guilt and self-hatred alleviated to nothing.

John looked up and smiled, "I love you, Dean."

His son rolled his eyes. "I know."


End file.
